


Burn This Map of the Stars

by objectlesson



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: An Alarming Amount of Pigeon Facts, Birthday, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Rimming, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22732489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “Can I give you some serum so you can be a pigeon tonight?” Walter spills, eyes pleading, mouth twisting into a pout as he cranes his neck to look pitifully up at him.Lance stares, sort of offended. It wasn’t what he was expecting, though he’s not sure there was an expectation in the first place. Not really, he has no idea what Walter is ever talking about most of the time. “What?!Why? Boy, Iswear,you like me better as a bird than a man. You’re always trying to get me to—”“I don’t—I don’t like youbetter,”Walter slurs, rolling into his back to stubbornly stare at the ceiling. He’s wearing his apron, still, and the frills bunch around his pink face like a Shakespearean collar. “It’s not that.”
Relationships: Walter Beckett/Lance Sterling
Comments: 37
Kudos: 615





	Burn This Map of the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I have pet pigeons and know an alarming amount about what its like to be a human wooed by a pigeon   
> 2\. driving and pumping are real sorry   
> 3\. I'm very glad to be writing in a fandom which enables me to write about pigeon facts!!!!  
> 4\. Happy birthday Walter <3

Lance figures it out on Walter’s twenty first birthday. 

He offers to take him out to a bar and get him drunk, but apparently all he wants to do is cook them both risotto and mushrooms. (Lance hates mushrooms, but he doesn’t get a word in edgewise about this thing, so he just shuts up. Walter is his boss now, so whatever). _You can get wine, I guess,_ Walter tacks on, almost as an afterthought while he picks a bit of crusted bird shit off the scalloped lace hem of his frilly apron, because this fucking kid just _touches_ bird shit all the time, bare handed, like Salmonella isn’t hell on earth. Lance wants to be grossed out by it, and he _is,_ but at the same time he can _feel_ his own elevated sense of nonchalance where such things are concerned, lately. Maybe it’s because he _occasionally_ has a cloaca every once and awhile when the mission calls for it. Or maybe because they’re temporarily living together until the agency rebuilds Walter’s house after destroying it, and living with Walter means living with Lovey which means dealing with bird shit on everything. _Do you think I’d like wine?_

Lance seriously doubts it, but he buys an expensive, quality bottle of Rosé anyway, alongside some Smirnoff and pink lemonade, just in case Walter hates it. He’s pretty sure he can get him to take a drink if it’s _pretty_. That’s the trick, with Walter. If it’s cute, or pink, or impractically tiny, he’s ten times more likely to be enthusiastic about it. It took Lance _moments_ to figure his tells out, but it’s been a little longer, a little more work, to actually _accept_ and play into them.

When he comes home the kitchen smells like feet, but in a nice way, which pisses him off. He wrinkles his nose, claps a hand down hard on Walter’s shoulder, the one Lovey isn’t perched upon. The impact still sends her flapping, her wings making that weird, squeaky, laughing sound they always do. He wonders if his own wings make the same sound when he flies. He’s always too adrenaline and or terror high to notice. “Hey kid, what’s cooking? Want a glass of this, Mr. Twenty one?” 

Walter spins around, eyes wide and blue like California swimming pools in a penthouse suite. “Aren’t I _not_ supposed to drink on an empty stomach? Isn’t that one of the rules? I’ve only been _tasting_ things, doubt that’s enough of a meal to counter balance the effects of ethanol on—”

“Hey,” Lance says, cutting him off, palm starfished briefly on his bony chest to push him into the counter. “It’s your birthday, right? Live a little.” 

A few hours later, the rosé is gone, Lance has had _so many_ bowls of feet-smelling risotto and mushrooms (which he apparently _loves?_ if they’re cooked right?), and Walter is curled up on his side on the suede couch, cheeks flushed, expression hazy as he nurses a vodka and pink lemonade that’s mostly lemonade. He’s going on and on about participle physics and how unethical _dove releases_ are, and Lance is just watching and listening, pretty goddamned pleased with himself. Walter is, predictably, a passionate and harmless drunk. And Lance could have guessed that, but at least he _knows,_ now. For sure. 

“Um, can I ask you a favor,” Walter mumbles at some point, waving a hand through the air messily, indistinctly. 

“Depends on the favor,” Lance answers, which might be a lie. Walter, somehow, can make him do a lot of things. Apparently its a combination of #true _goodness_ and irritating perseverance which does the trick, which melts the ice. “But shoot. M’listening.” 

“Can I give you some serum so you can be a pigeon tonight?” Walter spills, eyes pleading, mouth twisting into a pout as he cranes his neck to look pitifully up at him.

Lance stares, sort of offended. It wasn’t what he was expecting, though he’s not sure there was an expectation in the first place. Not really, he has no idea what Walter is ever talking about most of the time. “What?! _Why_? Boy, I _swear,_ you like me better as a bird than a man. You’re always trying to get me to—”

“I don’t—I don’t like you _better,”_ Walter slurs, rolling into his back to stubbornly stare at the ceiling. He’s wearing his apron, still, and the frills bunch around his pink face like a Shakespearean collar. “It’s not that.” 

“Just…how about you tell me, then, _why_ you’re so obsessed with a _black man_ taking on a nonthreatening, innocent form? _Explain it to me,_ like—“ 

“ _Lance,_ Lance. Oh my god. It has nothing to do with—“ he’s scrambling, rolling back over and trying to sit, very nearly spilling his vodka and lemonade all over the carpet in the process. “It’s just because you’re like! It’s hard to look at you sometimes, that’s all,” he spits out, gritting his teeth after the fact, wincing like he's about to be hit. Like whatever the truth is, it’s _worse_ than racism, which Lance very much doubt. “I’m sorry if that’s—yeah. It’s awkward. I’m awkward. M’sorry.” 

Lance is still stuck on being hard to _look_ at. He’s spent much of his life making sure he’s very, very, even _distractingly_ easy to look at. He moisturizes, dammit. He does _juice cleanses._ “I’m not following,” he grumbles, narrowing his eyes. 

Walter chugs the rest of his drink, throat bobbing until he’s coughing, setting the glass down only to let it fall as he collapses back onto the couch with his face in this hands. “It’s just! You’re _easily_ the best looking guy I’ve ever seen in real life and I’m a dumb bottom and it’s like, _much less sexually frustrating_ to be friends with you when you have _feathers!”_ he moans, voice muffled into a high, weak whine as Lance stares, baffled. “Don’t be _mad,”_ he adds. Then, carefully, “I think m’drunk.” 

Everything Walter just said is swirling around in Lance’s mind, a whirr of messy, mostly-pink neon, like a city at night. There might be some glitter. Some mushrooms. There’s definitely a marquee reading _sexually frustrated_ in glowing letters. He blinks, standing up to save the rouge glass from dripping on the carpet. “A—you’re a _bottom?_ Is that code word for something or—”

“No,” Walter interjects. “It’s woefully, tragically literal.” 

“Oh… _Oh,”_ Lance realizes, gut flooding with a sudden, unexpected heat. _Fuck._ He knew in the back of his mind Walter was gay, probably, in the way all millennials are some sort of gay but don’t feel the need to label it or whatever (unless they have a laundry list of labels they’ll cuss you out for failing to perfectly understand. In Lance’s experience there’s no in between). But he didn’t—he hadn’t _thought_ about it, in any sort of detail. In any extended or practical way. But now, as much as he’d rather not, he’s thinking about it. He’s thinking about it _a lot._

Lance has slept with men before, twice or thrice. He can tell whether or not a guy is attractive. He can even be _attracted_ to a guy. But every time push has come to shove, he can’t actually _make it work_ because the whole thing feels like too much of a competition, a fight. He ends up wrestling instead of fucking, so hearing someone—someone who looks like _Walter,_ pale and slender and…pretty, almost, just _self identifying_ as a _bottom_ —his stomach is twisting up. It’s a totally inappropriate way to feel about his twenty one year old _very drunk_ pseudo-room mate definite-boss, so he busies himself with backing his way into the kitchen to do dishes, instead. Anything to keep himself from having to see Walter messily writhing around on his couch in self recrimination or embarrassment or whatever. “Are you mad at me?” Walter calls from the living room. 

Lovey flies into the kitchen and tries to land on Lance’s head to presumably interrogate him on the behalf of her friend, but he successfully bats her off. She lands on the counter to spin and coo angrily at him instead. “I’m not _mad,”_ he answers, miserably scrubbing crusted risotto out of a saucepan. Everything smells like feet. “Just. Processing. Give a guy some time to process, kid.” 

“It’s not a _problem,_ you know, it doesn’t have to be.I’m not—I’d obviously never _do_ anything about it,” Walter announces from where he’s managed to drag himself from the couch to lean against the kitchen door frame, all of his weight slanted like a slash mark. His eyes are so fucking blue, his cheeks so fucking pink, and Lance hasn’t thought about it—about the specific shads of specific _parts_ of Walter’s body _once (_ at least not consciously), but now his brain is cruelly flooding him with a whole fucking Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat list of colors. It’s awful. “But that's why—why I’m less of a disaster when you’re a pigeon, if you were wondering. It has nothing to do with nonthreatening-ness. Or maybe it does, but not how you were imagining.” 

“You’re always a mess,” Lance tries to joke. “Go lie down, I’ll bring you some water.” 

“Don’t be _nice,”_ Walter groans, making a face and sagging into the wall. “M’telling you I have a bad, stupid, crush on you! And you’re not helping. You don’t help! Unless you’re a bird.” 

_Crush?!_ The words crush and bottom echo on a terrible, incessant loop in Lance’s head. He shakily pours himself a vodka and pink lemonade, and sucks it down at an alarming pace, until his head spins. So, Walter is a bottom and has a crush on him. Neither of these bits of information are surprising to him, so he’s not sure why knowing them with certainty feels like being gutted, or missing a step. Maybe because they’re tacked to phrase _sexually frustrated,_ which he can’t get out of his brain in terrible, flashing lights. “Boy, you’re drunk as hell. I think you should go to bed,” he groans, rubbing his palm over his face. 

“I’m not tired! I want to keep hanging out, I want—I just don’t want to look at you and feel like my eyes are burning out my face, ok? So lemme—lemme grab some serum. And you can be a pigeon. And everything will be _fine.”_

Lance watches Walter stumble over to the makeshift lab he’s set up a corner of his kitchen, throw open the door of the mini-fridge, and rifle clumsily through his vials until he finds the proper one and hands it over. Lance doesn’t _entirely_ trust him in this state, so he reads the label before sighing, and downing it. 

The transformations have gotten substantially less painful and time consuming the more Walter fine-tunes the formula, so in a few groggy moments, Lance is seeing the world in familiar, irritating fish-eye from the floor of his kitchen. He sighs, fluttering his wings testily, the sensation rippling through every flight tip awkwardly. He sort of hates this still, but it’s proven to have its advantages. He just never anticipated _not getting ogled by his partner_ to be among them. He’s not even entirely sure he doesn’t _want_ to be ogled by Walter, on some level, and that freaks him out too because he’s not sure it’s en entirely vanity motivated desire. The whole thing is easier for _him_ if he’s a pigeon, too. He doesn't have to worry about the implications. “You happy?” he snaps, following Walter’s pain and the ass self into the living room, alighting on his chest as he flops back into the cushions. 

Walter sighs, petting his back with gentle fingers while Lovey watches them both judgmentally from the mantle over the seldom-used fireplace. “I’m not—I dunno about happy. But I’m twenty one. And m’drunk,” he announces, breath smelling like wine and lemonade, sweet as it huffs out and ruffles the iridescent green and purple feathers around Lance’s neck. He rustles them, settling over the thud of Walter’s heartbeat. “Thank you,” Walter adds. “Sorry I’m like this. You _had_ to know though. You’re like. _Everyone_ had a crush on you at the agency. Not even just the gay guys. _All_ the guys.”

“Comforting,” Lance says, pecking at Walter’s apron punishingly. “You were telling me about dove releases?” he starts, desperate to change the subject. “Something about funerals….weddings….” 

Walter’s eyes snap open, a sharp, terrible blue. Darker than aquamarine, lighter than sapphire. Lance shuts his own eyes, claws tightening in kitchen-faded fabric, furious he remembers the lyrics to that fucking coat-song. “Right! Dove releases. They suck.” 

And he blathers on and on until he passes out with his mouth open and his crooked incisor showing, and Lance wonders what in the fuck he’s supposed to do once he’s a man again and won’t be able to stop _thinking_ about tonight. 

_—-_

Lance wakes up hungover, and a fucking bird. It’s not a good feeling. 

He’s still roosting on Walter’s chest, mildly nauseated by the steady rise and fall, which is somewhat alarming because he has no idea of pigeons can even throw up. Determined to _not_ find out, he ruffles his feathers and hops down to the carpet, clumsy as he weaves his way into the kitchen. Lovey watches him from her perch on the back of the couch, yellow-orange eyes narrowed judgmentally. 

Luckily, Walter figured out a pulley system for the mini-fridge door Lance can operate with his beak and wings, just in case he was ever too compromised by a mission to open it up for him. Its humiliating, but it’s also sort of genius. If only Walter could figure out a solution to the whole _clothes_ problem, they’d be golden. Lance is still irritatingly naked every time he transforms back into a man. It’s made for some very awkward moments, Walter’s cheeks always very pink, his eyes skittering around the room, his lip dimpled bloodlessly under that crooked incisor. 

In that moment, Lance suddenly, forcefully remembers _why_ , and his blood ices over, crop inflating defensively without him even asking to, which he _hates._ He just stands there in his kitchen for a minute, puffed up and dizzy and—something else. Something unspeakable. _Walter is gay and apparently a bottom and has a crush on me_ he thinks, waiting for the revelation to disgust, or upset, or even _weird him out._ Instead it continues to feel mildly titillating, very flattering. Walter…Walter is so smart. And up until last night, Lance just sort of assumed he was too _busy_ being smart to date, or even waste time being attracted to someone. He thought Walter had high standards. That he was _above_ sex, and carnality, and filth, too pure to give a shit about feeling desire. So, to be the _subject_ of that elusive desire? It feels irritatingly good. Lance wishes he wasn’t vain enough for it to make the feathers on the back of his neck stand up, but it does. He stomps over to the fridge, hoping maybe he’ll feel more reasonable about this when he’s him-fucking-self again. 

One serum-shot later, he’s naked in his own kitchen and still _just_ as dizzy and confused. In fact, it’s even worse, because Walter is still snoring on the couch in his apron, vulnerable and totally unawares to all of this. It makes Lance feel dirty. And even more worryingly, _shamefully hot,_ something tight building in his stomach as he trips around the marble island to find the clothes he’d left in a messy heap on the pile last night. He’s naked, and Walter is right there in the other room sleeping, and two days ago that wouldn't have mattered or phased him but _now…_ now he knows. That if Walter were awake, maybe he’s be trying to sneak a feverish look around the corner. Or maybe he’d be grinding his teeth, trying his hardest _not_ to look. Both possibilities twist low and burning in Lance’s gut. It’s too weird, to be thinking about Walter that way, to be thinking about Walter thinking about _him_ that way, so he shakes his head, steps back into his trousers and shrugs his dress shirt back on, and busies himself with making coffee. He hopes the smell will knock him out of it, but instead he just stands there wondering how drunk Walter was last night, if he even _remembers_ confessing what he confessed, or if he’ll be blissfully ignorant while Lance is left to stew and obsess and battle inappropriate boners. 

Once the coffee is done, he decides he can’t take it anymore. He pours two mugs, and heads into the living room to shake Walter awake. He needs answers. He needs an action plan. He needs _resolution._

He actually _notices_ how big his hand looks on Walter’s bony shoulder as he gently jostles his sleeping body, thumb pressed into the little ditch under his clavicle. He moves it, because it feels too intimate, and realizes with horror that pretty much every place his thumb could possibly lay feels too intimate. He doesn’t want to touch Walter, because now, he’s realizing it feels _good._ Walter is warm and pliable and fits again him neatly, and he _knows_ this because Walter _presses up against_ _him_ and lays his _head_ on his _shoulder_ when they watch his K-dramas at night and share popcorn. It didn’t bother him before, because he didn’t think it _meant_ anything, he just thought it was one of the many ineffable millennial things Walter did that he’d never understand, like being obsessed with unicorns and kittens and unicorn kittens which were apparently called _unikitties,_ which Lance woefully knew because Walter has _corrected him_ about such matters in the past. He thought is wasn't _personal,_ but now he knows better. He knows Walter was cuddling him because he wanted to be _close_ to him. To his body. And that shouldn’t make his stomach plummet, but here he is. 

“Hey, kid. Rise and shine,” he says, continuing to rock Walter back and forth, even as he groans and rolls over, eyes squinting shut tighter in the grey morning light. “Hey, Lovey, help me out, will you?” he says, addressing her pleadingly. “This is part of your job as an emotional support pigeon, isn’t it? Getting him out of bed?” 

She blinks, stares at him for a moment like he’s useless, and then makes a big show out of taking of and circling the room once before landing right on Walter’s cheek with her shop little claws. He doesn’t even yelp, just reaches messily into the air to bat her away without opening his eyes. Lance, at least, is relieved, because he can let go of him and stop thinking about all the times they’ve idly touched in the last few weeks they’ve been living together. Man, he must have been _such_ a frustrating room mate. ( _Sexually frustrating,_ Walter had said. He can still imagine the way his wide red mouth looked stumbling over all those syllables.) He’s _always_ touching Walter, now that he thinks about it. Throwing an arm atone his shoulders and squeezing him close in reassurance. Pinching his hip and telling him to eat more so he finally breaks 100 pounds. Flicking him on the back of the ear when he hogs the TV remote or the computer charger. Ruffling his shiny auburn curls, twisting his fingers through them and making them stand up because he has the sort of hair you can elaborately mold into whatever shape you want. Come to think of it, Lance hasn’t been great at keeping his hands to himself. He just didn’t know that was a problem until now. But it’s a big fucking problem. He doesn't know how to feel about it. 

Lovey has resorted to pecking at Walter, increasingly close to his scrunched shut eyelids. Finally he successfully dislodges her and mumbles, “Ok! Ok I’m up, I’m up. I’m awake and up. And I feel like _shit.”_

 _“_ You’re hungover,” Lance tells him, shoving the coffee mug into his hand. “Drink this, it’ll help.” 

“Ugh. I feel like I was on a _plane_ all night. Like I slept in economy seating.” 

“It only gets worse when you get older,” Lance promises. “My hangovers feel like I was _thrown_ from a plane, no parachute. Or like I got hit my an eighteen wheeler. You’ll get used to it, learn to drink water…it’s a rite of passage,” he says, gesturing for Walter to properly sit up so there’s somewhere on the couch for him to fit. Walter keeps not noticing, so finally he breaks down and taps his knee. “Move.” 

“Oh. Right,” Walter says, making a sheepish face as he hauls himself up unsteadily and prop himself up against one of the sham pillows. “Sorry.” 

Lance, however, is the sorry one. He shouldn’t be touching Walter so much, now that he _knows._ He shouldn’t be touching him at all. “Hey,” he says, fixing his gaze on the blank flat-screen TV, glad it’s matte so he can’t see himself in the reflection save for a vague brown blur. “How much of last night do you remember?” 

Walter blinks, frowning. “Ummmm. I made risotto, which you complained about but then you ended up eating like six servings of, which was a win. I drank wine, I sort of liked it. We talked about stuff for awhile and then—oh, _fuck,”_ he whines, sudden realization cracking across his face like dawn. He hangs his head, hides his expression with his one free hand, the other tightening white-knuckled around his coffee mug. “I _told_ you how I feel and made you turn into a bird because I’m _stupid,”_ he says, voice muffled. 

Lance winces. So he _does_ remember. “Hey, Walter, look. You’re not stupid. You were drunk, you—“

“Are you mad? Are you freaked out? Oh god _please_ don't make me move out!” He says, eyes so suddenly flashing as he looks up desperately. “I’m not cut out for living in a hotel, Lovey would have to wear pigeon pants and she _hates_ those. I—I promise I won't ever talk about it again. You can be a bird all the time if you want, so I won’t stare at your abs or your mouth or—”

“Hey! Hey hey hey slow down,” Lance interjects, stomach twisted up in at least ten different directions. “No one is moving out. And I _do not_ want to be a pigeon all the goddamn time you think that’s _preferable_ to knowing you look at my abs?! Walter. My abs are a national treasure. I make sure of that.” 

“You’re not freaked out?” Walter asks, gritting his teeth and peering from between his ling fingers. 

“I mean. I’m—I’m having some thoughts,” Lance sputters. “But I’m not _kicking you out,_ Jesus. Believe it or not, knowing you check me out isn’t the worst thing in the world. You think m’some sort of homophobe?” 

“No?” Walter tries, carding a hand through his hand and finally taking a tentative sip of his coffee. “But I know—I guess we have a good thing here, you know, being partners and room mates and friends. I’m not an idiot, I totally know nothing is gonna _happen,_ I know it’s a hopeless stupid crush. So I also selfishly…I guess I just really don’t want anything to change. I don’t want _this_ to change anything. I’d feel so stupid if I ruined what we have just because I…” he trails off, and Lance is both deeply relieved and disturbingly disappointed. He wanted to _know_ what Walter was gonna say. _Just because I want you? Because I want you to_ fuck _me?_ He shudders, that roiling heat sinking and settling inside him again. _Fuck,_ this is all so goddamned _inconvenient._

 _“_ I don’t want it to change, either,” he settles on, crossing his arms. “But I’m also not gonna pretend you didn’t tell me, and I’m not gonna _be a goddamned pigeon_ all the time so don’t have to deal with your feelings or whatever. I’d rather catch you staring at my ass than have a cloaca, ok? Trust me, it’s less awkward.” 

Walter pouts. “Ok,” he finally decides on. “I’m really sorry about this, by the way. You’re taking it much better than lots of my straight guy crushes in the past who have found out, though. I’m a little surprised.” 

Lance decides this is not a great time to tell Walter he’s perhaps not as straight as he assumes. “Well, I’m just full or surprises,” he says, forcing a grin. “Speaking of which, can pigeons puke? I almost gagged this morning but I was afraid I was gonna like, turn myself inside out. Sorry I tune you out every time you go on one of your pigeon anatomy rants.” 

That perks Walter right up, and he starts gesturing before he even finishes his sip of coffee. “They _can_ regurgitate, of course they can, it’s how they feed their chicks!” he announces after he swallows. Nothing distracts or occupies Walter faster than an opportunity to share Pigeon Facts. “Actually, part of pigeon wooing rituals involves puking, believe it or not.” 

“Oh I believe it, Pigeons are nasty, nasty animals,” Lance grumbles, even though he’s thrilled to have moved on from their former discussion. “That’s not an invitation to elaborate.” 

Lovey glares at him before rotating so her back is facing them huffily, but Walter isn’t deterred. “Males who are competing to be chosen as a mate have to prove they’d be good daddy material. So, the first part of pigeon-flirting is this behavior called driving, where the male attacks and wrestles the female to show how strong he is, to convince her he can defend their eggs. He drives her back to the nest eventually and she submits. And then, once she’s accepted him, he barfs into her mouth to show her what a good pumper he is.” 

“Pumper?!” Lance groans. “You know, a simple answer would have done the trick? Now m’feeling sort of nauseous again, thanks.”

“Pumping is the act of pushing stored seeds out of the male’s crop into the chick’s beak to feed them,” Walter explains, like Lance _asked. “_ It’s also how pigeons kiss, sort of. The males do this cute thing where they look over their shoulder and preen one wing before they pump the female, it’s like, the pigeon equivalent of straightening your hair or tipping a hat before swooping in to kiss the girl. Pigeons are romantics.” 

Lance really is feeling sort of sick again, but he’s also endeared. He likes that Walter knows so much about pigeons. He likes that Walter gets so excited when he talks about them. He likes that Walter feels comfortable enough around him these days to just _do it,_ instead of censoring himself in an attempt to seem less weird, the way he does around other people. Lance doesn’t give a shit about pigeon mating rituals, but he doesn't mind learning about them, no matter how much he complains. He thought this was just part of being Walter’s friend, but now, he’s questioning it, just like he’s questioning everything else. Everything about their interactions feels _loaded_ now. “So yeah, in conclusion, pigeons can definitely puke.” 

“Thank you,” Lance sighs. “For that unnecessarily detailed lesson in Pigeon mating rituals. I was gonna make you breakfast but now I’m gonna have to wait until I forcibly bleach all that out of my brain.” 

Walter shrugs, stands, and calls Lovey to his arm, where she lands and starts to preen as he walks into the kitchen. “I’ll make breakfast,” he says, shooting a look over his shoulder. Then, his gaze softens, falls to the floor as his cheeks pinken. “Thanks,” he adds, shrugging as Lovey sidesteps up to his shoulder before alighting on his head. “For being so cool about this thing.” 

“No problem,” Lance says without looking at him, not entirely sure _at all_ that he’s being cool. Not sure of anything, really. “I’ll take two eggs. Sunny side up.” 

“You got it!” Walter says cheerily. There’s a few long minutes of sizing and humming from the kitchen, punctuated by the squeaking sound of Lovey’s wings as she flies around from perch to perch. Lance sits in the living room the whole time, finishing his coffee up, even though it’s gotten cold, chewing the inside of his cheek and trying his hardest not to ruminate too deeply over everything that’s happened, or what it means for their future as friends and partners and room mates. Eventually Walter serves him his eggs with ketchup smiley faces on them and a little sprig of Parsley because he’s gotten really into presentation since he watches _Ratatouille_ on a loop for three days when he had the flu. Lance punctures his yolks and watches the bit of green swim around in the cheery yellow, half-listening as Walter tells him more about how social pigeons are and how complex and dedicated their family structures are. _Did you know pigeons mate for life?_

A few times, Lance will look up to quip, and a few times Walter looks away abruptly, with his gaze cagey, cheeks flushing red, and Lance will be forced to think _oh_ because he _knows,_ now. He knows and he _asked_ for this, he said he _preferred it._ And he does. He really _does._ He wonders what it says about him, that he doesn’t _mind_ Walter looking at him. That he actually sort of _likes_ it. That he _certainly_ prefers it to being a bird. He wonders what it says that he’s not acting the way other men have when presented with the reality of Walter’s affection. He wonders what it says that he doesn’t really _want_ to give up couch-cuddles to K-dramas or playing with Walter’s hair. He wonders until he starts to come up with tentative answers, and he hates them all so much he decides to stop wondering, instead. He just eats his eggs, and learns about how pigeons get married. 

—-

The next few weeks are increasingly tense. 

It’s probably because despite all his best efforts to _not_ think constantly about Walter’s birthday, it’s _all_ Lance can think about. In bed. In the shower. On the road. _At work._ All of which are truly inopportune moments to recall the hazy-eyed, embarassed flush spilling across Walter’s cheeks as he confessed. Valentines Day comes and goes, and they spend it _together,_ drinking pink wine and ordering Chinese take out, and Lance even catches himself wondering if this is a transgression, some invisible line being crossed. If you’re _not_ supposed to get tipsy and watch Disney movies with a gay guy who has a crush on you on a day meant for lovers. Walter doesn’t _say_ anything, but Lance still feels fucking weird about it. On edge. Tight-stomached. _Hot._

It might have to do with the fact Lance _has_ caught Walter checking him out a few times. Or not checking him _out_ , necessarily, more like… staring at him all dazed and adoring and stunned, the same starry-eyed expression he gets when he watches musicals on youtube or sees someone walking a puppy. It never feels acutely _sexual_ , and before Lance knew better, he legitimately misconstrued Walter’s mooning as admiration. He _is_ awesome, after all. It’s fair Walter would admire him. He never thought too much about what _else_ might be happening. 

But now, he’ll notice those too-blue eyes burning into him from behind and _immediately,_ without fail, think _bottom_ in flashing neon. It’s a fucking reflex at this point, so no matter _how_ badly he doesn’t want to think about Walter Becket bent over the arm of his couch, _he’s powerless against the image._ It rockets into his brain alarmingly often. Not _just_ when he catches Walter looking him up and down, or licking his lips, or blushing, even. It happens _unbidden_ sometimes _,_ especially right before he’s about to fall asleep, and his hand trails idly down his abs and under the waistband of his boxers without him even thinking about it. 

As embarrassing and totally inappropriate as it is, the fact Walter would like Lance to fuck him has led to Lance _thinking about fucking Walter._

He notices so many _things_ now. The way Walter licks that single crooked tooth when he’s thinking. The way the hair under his arms grows in soft little cowlicks, more auburn than the hair on his head, unless it’s dark and damp from the shower. The way he picks at his nail beds until they’re bleeding when he's stressed about proposing a budget plan to the Agency to fund an invention of his they’re planning to mass produce. The way he smells like jasmine shampoo and the lavender essential oils he uses for his headaches, a scent that sticks to Lance’s clothes after he hugs Walter, which he realizes he does sort of a lot. (Maybe he shouldn’t). Lance _knew_ all this stuff already, but now it’s catalogued consciously, so much of his brain unwillingly occupied by the finer details of living with Walter, sharing space with him. 

And as much as Lance hates being a bird, he’s decided that Walter might have been right, and maybe it’s better for them both if he just commits to being small and feathered and generally unsexy for awhile. Then Walter won’t look at him so much. And he won’t have to _think_ about Walter looking at him. He won't have to ask himself why he _likes_ it. 

So, he as nonchalantly as possible asks Walter to whip up enough serum he can transform daily for a few weeks, all under the guise of flight practice, since he’s still pretty graceless at that part of being a pigeon. Walter is happy to comply. Maybe he’s even _relieved._ Maybe he hates the weird awkwardness that’s settled over them since his birthday just as much as Lance does.

Tentatively they fall into a new routine. After work Lance swigs some serum, and then he spends a few exhausting hours in the backyard with Lovey, shooting through a series of obstacles Walter built for him. Tunnels, hoops, poles. His wings ache when he’s done, so it’s _nice,_ actually, to settle on Walter’s knee or shoulder after the fact, and let him scritch the feathers around his neck ruff while they share chow-fun. He doesn’t have to worry if it’s weird or not, if they’re touching, or sitting close, because he’s a goddamned _bird._ He can zone out on the TV in peace, blinking sleepily while Walter’s fingers nudge up against him gently. 

The plan proves to be successful all of three _days,_ though, before shit goes haywire. 

It starts after a particularly rigorous fight practice. Lance is actually getting pretty good at maneuvering in the sky, though he will still occasionally freak out and freeze up, wings suddenly just flattening out against his sides while he plummets earthward in a panicked spiral. However, today he made it through the _entire_ obstacle course five consecutive runs without this happening, _in addition_ to breaking his personal record for best time. The success makes him stupidly full of himself even though this whole pigeon-thing is just an excuse to not deal with Walter’s crush on him and the tide of confusion it’s brought to their living arrangement. Still, it feels _good_ to not suck at being a bird. He whoops in triumph, spinning back towards Walter and alighting on his shoulder, claws curling into the fabric of his hoodie, wings beating in the air, ruffling his hair. “You see that shit? _That’s_ what I’m talking about. _Damn_ it feels good to not hit any fucking trees.” 

“You killed it,” Walter tells him, beaming as he offers the knuckle of his index finger toward Lance so they can meet in the middle for a make-shift fist-bump. But suddenly—for some fucking reason—Lance can’t lift his foot. He can’t do _anything._ He just stares at Walter’s hand, the scabby hangnail on his thumb, and something rises and surges inside of him like a storm and before he can think about it or stop himself he’s biting the _shit_ out of the tender skin between Walter’s fingers. “Ow! What was that for?” he asks him, trying in vain to pull his hand away. 

Lance won’t let him, though. He tightens his beak, determined to hold on. He has no idea _why,_ but the urge has overcome him so powerfully he can’t fight it. He’s—he’s just _got_ to prove that he’s strong. He needs Walter to _know,_ to _approve,_ which is frustrating because he's objectively very small and light right now so there’s nothing, really, he can do to save for violent biting and pecking _._ In some weird fit of primal desperation, he releases Walter for a second, only to launch forward and grab him again, eyes wide and presumably panicked. 

Walter is just staring at this point. “Are you—-in control of your body?” he asks curiously, lifting Lance up by his beak, which is still attached to his hand, and depositing him into his other arm to pry him off. “That fucking _hurts,_ by the way, Lovey never pecks that hard. She just sort of nibbles.”

“I— _umf—_ I don’t know,” Lance forces out, finally regaining himself enough to unclamp his beak and shake his head, feathers all unsettled and poofed out the way they do when he’s cold. His heart is pounding against his breastbone, so much so he feels out of breath. he opens his beak to pant, hot all over, feeling truly pitiful. “I don’t think so, I just—I couldn’t stop? I had to bite you? Why in the hell would I—oh _fuck,”_ he yelps as he scrambles out of Walter’s grip and flutters to the ground at his feet, overtaken by another urge to look as tough as he possibly can. Without intending to, he starts to shuffle back and forth, spinning occasionally, cooing like a maniac. He can’t _stop,_ which is sort of terrifying. He _hates_ when he loses his human voice, his human _mannerisms._ Especially when it’s to do something incredibly stupid and pointless, like look tough when he’s a literal bird. _“_ This is—it’s like—like in Mexico,” he manages to sputter between furious cooing. “When I fucking ate _trash.”_

Walter drops to his knees on the grass, eyes narrowed curiously at Lance as he stomps around beyond his control. He would be humiliated if he wasn’t so _panicked_. “Some innate avian instinct then…to fight? It looks sort of like flock posturing, so like, are you trying to fight me? Does it feel like that?”

“No, not _fight,”_ Lance pants, grinding his beak because the whole violent pecking instinct worsens the more Walter leans towards him. “More like. I. I gotta seem big. Gotta show you I’m strong. Dunno why.” 

“Huh! So not quite fighting? I wonder what about _this moment_ over all the other moments sparked this particular behavior, which is really only seen when—“

“ _Walter,”_ Lance gasps, continuing to loop and spin and coo and cluck and puff up his crop totally beyond his control. It’s getting exhausting. “Serum. Now. Make me human again before this tiny stupid heart gives out and I _die._ ” 

“Right—-right, right, right ok,” Walter says, looking like it pains him. “But! Maybe this could be a relevant scientific—”

“ _Now,”_ Lance spits out before he takes flight, frantically fluttering midair for a moment before landing on Walter again and this time biting his sweatshirt strings. It’s worse, somehow, when Walter is close to him. Lance _really_ can’t fight the urge to absolutely _annihilate_ him with his beak, which, as far as annihilation goes, is pretty inefficient methodology. 

“Fine! ok. Come on,” Walter sighs, sidestepping his way through the sliding glass door and to the fridge for some serum, Lovey following and perching on the table to watch them, head cocked curiously. She’s giving Lance that _look_ she gives him sometimes, the semi-judgmental, semi-pitying one that says _I know what’s up, you don’t, but…you’ll get it eventually._ He glares at her, and pathetically attacks Walter’s clothes until Walter grabs him, yanks him off, and force-feeds him enough serum to trigger a transformation. 

And quite suddenly, there he is, naked in his kitchen with a fist clutched around the strings of Walter’s sweatshirt, close enough he can feel his warm exhalations somewhere around the thud of his pulse. “Um,” he mumbles, trying unsuccessfully to uncement his fingers from their death grip. He can’t make himself _move,_ though, Walter’s eyes are too blue, his lips parted around a stunned gasp, wet and licked looking and _fuck._ He’s thinking about it, again. The thing he shouldn’t be thinking about. The thing he became a pigeon _solely_ to avoid. He wonders how this could have all so _spectacularly_ backfired. “Sorry,” he hisses, wincing as he uses his working, free hand to cover himself, even though Walter is clearly doing everything in his power not to glance down. His cheeks are a fierce, sudden red, so dark his faint freckles disappear into the flush. 

But then, his face changes. Something washes over him as his eyes widen, tongue flicking up to his crooked tooth to poke at it how he _always_ does when he’s thinking. “What?!” Lance asks, panic rising in his chest. He doesn't like being the only living being in the room who doesn't know what the fuck is going on. 

“You were—you were driving me,” Walter murmurs, clarity spreading across his face as he lights up like Christmas. It makes an unexpected heat gather suddenly in Lance’s gut. He finally manages to stagger away, looking around frantically for _something_ he can properly fit over his hips because truth be told his hands don’t _really_ do the trick as far as full coverage is concerned. He finally settles on a throw pillow, which he grabs from the couch. 

“Ok, I was _what_ now?” he asks, raising one eyebrow at Walter, whose hands have come to cup his mouth in something like disbelief. It’s making Lance uneasy, how big his pupils are. How _astounded_ he looks. “I need answers, boy, quit looking at me like that.” 

And he didn’t mean _like that_ like that, but Walter still gasps, snapping out of it enough he spins away, covering his eyes. “Sorry, sorry! I—I didn’t mean to. Fuck. But that _was_ what you were doing! What took over, I think. Your driving instinct. I’m pretty sure? You said you wanted to seem tough, right?” 

“My _what_ instinct? Is this some—”

“It’s part one of the pigeon mating ritual! I literally told you about this the other day!” Walter exclaims, throwing his gangly arms up into the air, staring at Lance with a plaintive gaze for a few seconds before the jarring reality of the words _mating ritual_ sink into them both and just sort of _sit_ there in the tense air between their bodies. Lance can feel himself recoiling defensively, his jaw clenching up because some level of his subconscious he _knew_ that, already. That this had something to do with Walter, and knowing Walter wanted him, and that shifting into wanting Walter. He _knew._ But he doesn’t want to fucking admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to _do_ anything about it. That feels like too insurmountable of an unknown to even look at in the harsh light of his kitchen. 

Walter makes a face, chewing the inside of his lip before quietly adding, “please don’t be mad.” 

“I’m not—I’m not _mad._ I’m just—what do we _do_ about it? How do I make it stop?” Lance asks desperately, grip tightening on the throw pillow so violently he can feel the silky shift of the down stuffing within the velour. 

“I don’t want to tell you,” Walter says after a moment of chewing his lip. “It involves nests.” 

Lance’s throat tightens reflectively and he wracks his brain, trying to remember what Walter said when he was going on and on about pigeon mating rituals. It was the morning after his birthday. It was an awkward conversation. It—suddenly, it all comes rushing back. Walter’s lit up eyes, the way he said, _Pigeons are romantics. “_ Driving is—part one. Where the male wrestles the female into the nest to prove he’s strong— _fuck._ Fuck. Fuck. I’m trying to— _why?_ Why am I doing that?” he asks, horrified because he already knows. His pigeon-brain caught onto the fact he _reciprocates Walter’s feelings_ before his fucking human-brain did. “ _Do I see you as a mate?”_ he barks, pulling the pillow closer. Maybe this realization would suck less if he wasn’t fucking _naked._

 _“_ I don’t know!” Walter squeaks, wrapping his arms around himself and staring at the ground before glancing up somewhat hopefully. “Do you?” 

Lance frowns. He doesn't know _either._ Not really, anyway. He knows he's attracted to Walter, that he’s imagined fucking him, at least since since the prospect was brought to his attention. He knows he likes cuddling with him on the couch at night. That he likes living with him. That he’s never really felt so comfortable and relaxed around another person. But at the same time—Walter’s young, and gay, and Lance _isn’t_ those things. He doesn’t really know what he is in regards to that shit, but he knows they're fundamentally _different_ because of generational views, life experiences. And up until this point, he just—assumed that it wouldn’t work. That it wasn’t even worth _considering_ what he felt because feeling it didn’t _change_ that he wouldn’t he probably wouldn’t be a good boyfriend to Walter. And he wasn’t really planning on _telling_ Walter all of this stuff, but here he is: naked save for a throw pillow clutched against his thighs, stuck between a rock and a hard place all because his fucking avian-instincts made him try and drive Walter into his _nest._ Or his bed. Whatever. He takes a deep breath and admits, “Ever since your birthday I can’t stop thinking about it. What it would be like, because you sort of put the idea into my head? But hell—even before that. It might have been there all along, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, though, if I see you as a mate _right now_ because my pigeon-self clearly does.” 

“Is your pigeon self that different than your not-pigeon self?” Walter asks, cocking his head. “And—it’s part of you. You have to be a bird sometimes for work, and it’s gonna be a _problem_ if this takes over and you like, start to drive me in the middle of a mission and—”

“Ok! _Yeah_ , that sucks, but what do I _do_ about it? Are we supposed to—should I wrestle you into bed and see if that makes it go _away_?” Lance chokes out, heart speeding up at the mere _idea_ of such a thing. Touching Walter like that. Seeing his pale skin against the dark navy silk sheets he has. His mouth goes dry, dick twitching under the pillow. “This is crazy,” he mutters, tearing his eyes away. “I can’t believe—” and then his voice dies in his throat because Walter is tentatively walking towards him, closer and closer until their knees are almost brushing. 

“I think we should try,” he mumbles, throat bobbing around a thick, nervous swallow. The universe suddenly smells like Jasmine and Lavender and Lance so suddenly wants Walter so _bad_ his hands flench reflexively in velour, breath catching in this chest. So, it’s not just his pigeon-self. It’s _him._ It’s everything. 

“Ok,” he murmurs, heart pounding so loud he feels like Walter might be able to hear it, to feel the resounding vibration. “What do I do?”

“Um,” Walter says quietly, licking his lips, letting himself really _look_ at Lance, which makes his skin prickle under the hot, deliberate scrutiny. Walter’s gaze is sweeping down the cords of his neck, over his pecs, lingering on his tattoos before dipping lower, down the ladder of his abs. “Grab me and over power me and push me into your room,” he murmurs before they lock eyes. “I guess.” 

It takes over Lance again, consuming like fire. He doesn't think, he doesn’t _let_ himself, he just _moves._ Lets the throw pillow fall to the floor between them, reaches out and grabs Walter’s elbows in his big hands, stomach plummeting at the shift of cotton over warm skin, the sensation of bones grinding under his firm grip. He backs him up, through the kitchen, down the hall, hands tightening, mouth falling open so he can suck up the tiny, faint gasp that Walter just let out, eyes hazy, then _dark_ as it drops down. “Jesus, _fuck,”_ he whimpers, licking his lips. “I—I want you so bad.” 

“Fight back,” Lance huffs out as he clumsily kicks his bedroom door open, putting Walter up against the door frame. “We’re supposed to wrestle, right?” His voice sounds far away, though, words filtered through the maddening thud of his own blood rushing in his ears. Walter is staring at his cock, pulse palpably quickening as it twitches, flexing. Lance is half hard already, just from the smell of Walter’s skin, the taste of his breath, the way he feels. 

“Um,” Walter mumbles. “I don’t think it matters. I’m already yours, I—I already know you’re the one I want. You don't have to be the strongest, or—oh _god,”_ he whines as Lance curses through his grit teeth and hauls Walter easily into bed. He’s short and light and easily manipulable, but beyond that he’s _willing,_ and that makes him so easy to move, to touch, to lay out. He kicks off his shoes and scoots up the bed, writhing there in the dark sheets expectantly as Lance clambers on after him, bracketing his body between his knees, carding a hand through his hair and tugging. He feels so _good,_ so breakable, so soft. 

“Ok, can we skip ahead to the kissing part then?” Lance asks, dipping down, a whisper away from Walter’s parted, panting lips. “If I don’t have to prove anything? Promise I’m a good pumper. I’m not gonna puke in your mouth.” 

Walter erupts into breathy, wheezing laughter, and it tastes so fucking good Lance can’t stand it anymore. He bends down, their lips brushing together before they press flush and hot, Walter’s laughter flattening out into a moan as he opens up under him, body slight but solid as Lance grinds him into his bed. “So romantic,” Walter giggles as Lance pulls away, dizzy with longing. 

“What can I say? Pigeons are very romantic,” he says, breath coming out ragged. He pitches forward again to kiss Walter, _desperate_ for the taste of him, the soft give, and slickness, the heat. He can’t _remember_ what his experiences kissing men before this were even _like_ because the way Walter feels crowds every other sensation right out of his brain, replaces the foggy memories with soft lips, the faint scrape of stubble against his chin, everything so wet and needy he feels like he’s drowning.

“Damn,” he hisses as he pulls away, _shocked_ by how _good_ it is, how _sure_ he is. He can’t remember why he thought this wouldn't work, why he was so fucking scared of letting himself admit he _wanted_ Walter when he clearly, overwhelmingly wants him _so bad. “_ C’mere.” 

“Jesus _christ,”_ Walter whines, palming all over Lance’s sides, his shoulders, touch awed and greedy. “You’re so fucking hot, it—I can’t even believe this is happening. God. So strong. You could defend the _shit_ out of our eggs,” he mumbles, squeezing Lance’s biceps. “God.”

Lance hardly hears him, he's so _into_ this, so lost in it. He kisses him deep before he mouths down his throat, into the collar of his shirt. “Take this shit off, it’s stupid I’m naked and you’re not.” 

“I’m significantly less impressive when naked, just a warning,” Walter says, busy palming hungrily at the muscle framing Lance’s spine. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but—”

“I think you’re fucking beautiful,” Lance confesses, shaking his head because the truth seems so _obvious_ now that it’s there, tumbling from his lips, spilling out into the humid space between their kisses. He _does_ think Walter is beautiful, and he has for a long time, he just didn’t allow it to go anywhere or mean anything because it was stupid and improbably and inconvenient—until it wasn’t. And now, it’s all he can think about. “I love your eyes, they’re the prettiest goddamned blue. And I love your smile, your crooked tooth,” he tells him, thumbing over the incisor before dipping down to lick it. “And I—your legs are so long. I think about them wrapped around me. Think about bending you in half, _fuck.”_

“Oh _god,_ well, um, you can do it, you can do whatever you want,” Walter whines, letting go of Lance long enough he can fumble between them and tug his hoodie and shirt over his head in a single motion, one inside the other. He flops back down, so pale and thin, faint freckles on his chest like brown sugar. Lance licks them, thumbing over a pink nipple so it draws tight enough to suck. “Ah,” Walter gasps, heart picking up under the hot, hungry spread of Lance’s mouth. “Do you—do you like skinny white girls or something? I legit cannot believe you’re hard for me this is like a dream.” 

Lance shrugs. He _has_ dated skinny white girls in the past, though he wouldn't consider them his type or anything, not necessarily. His type in girls seems very far away and irrelevant right now, because he’s not _thinking_ about girls, he’s not pretending Walter is a girl or anything like that. He’s grinding against him, spreading his thighs so he can feel between them, cup his hard cock through his jeans experimentally because the idea of something new, something uncharted—-it’s _hot._ He’s never felt this way when he’s tried hooking up with other men in the past. This is most definitely _not_ a wrestling match, or a competition, it’s—it’s _Walter._ Blue eyes and pink lips and gasps and jasmine and softness, totally submitting to him, moaning as he kisses his way down his chest, leaving marks when he bites or sucks. “I like you,” he realizes, shrugging. “Way too much.” He pops the button on Walter’s jeans, rubbing his cheek into the fine auburn hair under his navel. “Goddamn.” 

“Ugh, I am the luckiest guy in the _world,_ I don’t understand?!” Walter keens, hands rubbing over Lance’s scalp as he tugs his jeans and briefs down over his hips, eager to see more of him, to get him fully naked and totally vulnerable here in his bed. “But m’not complaining, not one bit. God. You feel so good.” 

Lance sits back on his heels between Walter’s spread legs once he gets him out of his jeans, staring down at his cock with wide eyes, a flooded mouth. It’s thin, and pink, and cut. The sort of cock you see on those twink porn stars, proportionate and perfect. “Boy, why in the hell did you think you weren't impressive? You're like, some gay-porn wet dream. You look like a centerfold. _Damn.”_

Walter shakes his head, eyes wide with disbelief. “Is that _good?!_ I dunno, I like beefy guys who look like 90s action heroes. I like guys like _you. I_ don’t find _myself_ impressive,” he says, shrugging, reaching for Lance with greedy hands. “Can you come back and crush me again?”

Lance is grinning, totally beside himself, more than happy to fit himself back into Walter’s arms and bear down, rocking him into the mattress. Their skin is flush and pressed together in so many places, dark brown and lily white and _god,_ it looks good, feels better. “What do you like? How do you want me?” Lance asks against the shell of his ear, inhaling the sweet, floral smell of his hair, hands drifting over soft skin. In most of his idly, half-silenced fantasies, he imagined fucking Walter because of course, Walter drunk-confessed the exact words _dumb bottom_ and that’s the sort of thing that gets branded into your brain. But now that he’s _here,_ touching Walter all over, kissing his lush mouth, feeling his cock pressing hard and burning into his stomach, the possibilities feel _endless._ He wants to kiss him all over, taste every inch of his skin, feel him from the inside out. He’s overwhelmed, he doesn't know where to start. 

Luckily, Walter seems to know _exactly_ what he wants. “ _Please_ let me suck your cock,” he groans, voice muffled as he presses his lips into the cut of Lance’s cheek bone. “I’ve wanted to for so long, so— _god,_ I think about it way too much.” 

Lance is thinking about it way too much now, too. Those pink lips pulled tight, Walter’s cheeks hollowed out as he sucks, his long fingers curled around the base of his shaft. “Jesus, _baby,”_ he groans, the word coming out of him so easy, so unplanned. Walter shivers as he says it though, hips rolling hungrily in the air as Lance kisses him deep, fucking his tongue into the plush hole of his mouth. “Yeah, you can suck me, _god,_ bet you’re so good at it. Bet you look pretty with your mouth full.” 

Walter keens wordlessly, writhing his way down the bed eagerly as Lance rolls onto his own back, taking his cock in hand and pumping it a few times in anticipation. “I hope you think so,” he murmurs, eyes hooded as he stares, licking his lips. “God, you’re so _hot,”_ he whimpers then, brushing his knuckles up the underside gently before curling his grip around it. Lance is thick, he _knows_ it’s gonna be a stretch for Walter to take it down his throat, but just _seeing_ it so close to his face, those flushed cheeks and his spit-wet pout, twists so low and hot in his stomach. This is _real,_ Walter is in his bed, Walter is going to blow him, _Walter._ He cards a hand through his mussed up hair, shaking his head, marveling at how stupid he was about this thing. How _long_ he tricked himself into being stupid, when he could have already been _doing_ this. 

He thumbs over the corner of Walter’s mouth reverently as he opens up and sucks him down, sinking deep and messy right away, not bothering to tease, to taste. He clearly wants to _choke,_ and the hot, searing suck is so much so fast Lance actually gasps, fist tightening in Walter’s hair. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hips pumping as Walter looks up at him with wide, watering eyes through the flutter of his lashes. “Damn. Knew you’d be good.” 

Walter moans as he bobs his head, sinking lower each stroke, drooling into Lance’s dark, tightly curled pubes. He’s _so_ goddamned gorgeous, so _hungry_ for it, mouth so wet and perfect. Lance has _fantastic_ endurance and he’s pretty sure he can last as long as he needs to, but _fuck_ is he going to hold on, stave off his orgasm. Walter pulls off messily, rubbing his plush lips around the tip in a froth of spit. “Does it feel good?” he asks before flicking his tongue against the slit, every touch sensational, _burning_ hot. 

Lance laughs breathlessly. “So fucking good,” he promises, guiding him back and fucking into his mouth rough and deep, because he can fucking _tell_ it’s what Walter wants, what he’s fantasized about. “You need it so bad, don’t you? You love sucking that cock.” 

Walter nods frantically, moans with his mouth full as he humps the sheets, so desperate, so pretty. Lance kicks the sheets off of him so he can see his whole body, his pert, pale ass tightening up with each thrust, the deep curve of his spine. “Jesus christ, _look_ at you,” he curses, squeezing Walter’s narrow shoulders between his own thighs, stunned by the contrast. He's _dizzy_ with how good his mouth feels, close from the mere _sight_ of how much he loves this, getting his face fucked, making Lance _feel_ good. Lance wants to touch him so bad, pull those tender cheeks apart and thumb over his hole, get it slick with lube. He wants to taste _Walter’s_ cock, he wants smooth skin sweaty-sticky under his palms. He wants it all. “Come up here, baby,” he orders, not even really knowing what he _means,_ just that he needs _more._ Walter must be able to read his mind, though, because instead of pulling off he just shifts, keeping his mouth sealed tight and sucking around Lance’s cock as he clambers over his thigh and knee-walks to his side. 

Lance grabs him, rubbing down his side, his thigh, loving the way his skin pinks up under his touch, so pale, so sensitive. “That’s it. Straddle me, lemme see that ass,” he murmurs, dragging Walter up and over onto his chest, so he’s straddling him backwards, balls in his face. Lance has never been particularly _into_ 69 as a thing, maybe because he’s always been so much taller than his partners the logistics just didn’t work out. But Walter is the perfect height if he jams his pillows under his own head, bringing his mouth right up to his ass. He thumbs his crack apart, loving the way Walter whines around his cock at the contact, trembling in his grip as he holds him fast with one wide hand on his hips. “S’ok, baby, I got you. Just want to taste you, want to open you up,” he mumbles, stomach in knots at how _good_ Walter looks, at the salty spicy smell of his skin. 

His hole is tight and winking and a very dark pink, and Lance doesn’t think twice about fixing his mouth there and licking, sloppy- wet and hungry. It _should_ be a dirty thing, but it doesn’t _feel_ that way, not with Walter. It feels _right_ , and intimate, and fucking _hot._ The muscle is furled tightly against his tongue but it flutters and flexes open as he laps at it, enough so he’s able to push his tongue _inside_ , losing himself in the heat and the darkness so much he forgets he's even holding back from his inevitable finish. His hips piston and he fucks the slick, maddening suction of Walter’s mouth and before even fully realizes what’s happening he’s coming _hard_ , gasping into the spit-wet crack of Walter’s ass, eyes scrunched against a tide of static. 

Walter whimpers, moans, swallows, stays, but he doesn’t slide off. He stays there, his weight spread out across Lance’s body, mouth still idly, messily sucking. He’s rubbing his cock into the ditch between Lance’s pectorals, humping him as he rocks against Lance’s still-licking tongue, breath coming out in wild, ragged huffs from his nose. Lance _loves_ his little sounds, the way he’s so desperate to come, his thigh muscles flexing, under mauling hands. He could probably come here while Lance eats him out, spill out onto the solid plane of his ribcage while he sucks his softening cock, but Lance doesn’t feel _done_ with him. He’s gotten him wet and softened him up, an he wants to _feel_ him inside, push a finger into the hot clutch of his insides, feel the muscle tighten frantically around his finger as he comes down his throat, into his hand. He wants to see him shoot off. He wants so _much,_ it makes him feel crazy, like he’s got so much _time_ to catch up on. He squeezes Walter’s ass in greedy fistfuls, pulling his face out of his crack to wipe his mouth against the soft, downy hair on the back of his thigh. “Baby, you good?” 

“So good,” Walter mumbles thickly, lips ghosting against Lance’s messy cock. “I feel drunk. Feel perfect.” 

“I want to finger you, that ok?” Lance asks, thumbing down the slick crease, rubbing over his hole in experimental circles. “Want to lay you out and suck you and get my fingers in you.” 

“Fuck, _please,”_ Walter whines. Then, after he rolls off clumsily, thumping onto the mattress with his pale thighs splayed, “Are you _sure?_ You don’t—don’t feel like you have to do butt-stuff because I told you I'm a dumb bottom.” 

_“_ Damn sure. I already _licked_ it, you think I have a problem sticking my finger in it? Get your priorities straight, kid,” he teases, arranging himself between Walter’s legs and spreading him wider, kissing from his knee to his very upper thigh, there his pubic hair is matted down with sweat, soap-fresh and red-brown and fine. “God _damn_ , how the fuck do you _smell_ so good?” Lance murmurs, mouth open, wet, eyes shut against a tide of want as he breathes Walter in. He still wants him so fucking _bad,_ even after coming as hard as he did. He’s starting to think this is permanent _thing,_ wanting Walter. That pigeons really _do_ mate for life. 

Lance opens his eyes, examining Walter’s cock up close for the first time. It’s slick and shining at the tip, dripping precum onto his flat, pale stomach as he idly thrusts against nothing, panting into the blankets like he’s braced for something, like he’s convinced this is too good to be true. Lance’s mouth is watering from the picture alone, so he thinks nothing of it as he rubs his fingers through the fluid on Walter’s stomach and licks it off. Walter, however, looks totally _ruined_ over it. “I—fuck, I've thought about so many things, but never—like not even in my wildest dreams did I think you’d ever suck _my_ cock,” he admits. “I’m sort of overwhelmed.” 

“What, did you think I was selfish? Or a prude?” Lance asks, curling his hand around Walter’s cock. It doesn't look objectively small on his frame, but the whole thing nearly disappears into his fist, nothing but that silky, dripping tip visible. He licks the flash of pink, so salty, musky, _perfect._

 _“_ No! Just. I dunno. That you were _straight_ ,” Walter murmurs, eyes scrunching shut as Lance sucks the whole of him into his mouth, deep enough his lips brush against coarse curls. This is _easy,_ and he feels wildly powerful and competent. Walter just _isn’t_ very big so he can fit _so_ much in his mouth with the tip only _just_ nudging against the back of his throat at the right angle. Walter is crying out though, hips bucking, stomach muscles shuddering under a layer of softness as Lance lashes his tongue at the underside, not sure what to do with it and only having how to get girls off as a frame of reference. It’s _working_ though, Walter is clawing at his shoulders, his cock is twitching between Lance’s lips. “Holy _shit,_ you—you’ve—have you done this before?” 

“Nah, not really,” Lance answers as he pulls off wetly, trying to remember but fairly certain all his interactions with men were limited to hands and fumbling and maybe dry humping through clothes. “You’re just easy.” 

“No, you’re—this is fucking— _ah,”_ Walter chokes out, lifting one leg and draping it over Lance’s shoulder and digging his heel into his back. “If you finger me I’m gonna come _so_ fast.” 

And Lance has mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, he _so badly_ wants to feel it, to see it, to _taste_ it. To hear the sounds Walter makes as he’s coming apart in bits. On the other hand, he also sort of wants to do this _forever._ He figures as soon as they recover, though, they can do it again, so, the desire to feel Walter spill hot and bitter down his throat wins out over everything else. He spits a handful of thick frothy spit into his palm and rubs it into Walter’s already wet hole, before swallowing his cock down, nudging gently at his core. 

It doesn't take much, Walter is wet and eager and it’s _effortless_ to push up inside the clenching heat of him. He moans wordlessly as he sucks him down, crooking into his walls, astounded by the _give,_ the grip. He wants to ask if he can add another finger but before he pulls off to free his mouth Walter chokes out a raw, hungry gasp and begs, “ _more,_ please. I—I like it to hurt a little.” 

_Damn,_ fuck. Lance pushes his middle finger in alongside his index, fucking them deep as he bobs his head and he can already _feel_ something building in Walter, _hear_ it in his increasingly animal moans, _feel_ it in the deep, slutty bend of his spine as he arches it off of the sheets to fuck himself. Still, when it finally happens, it catches Lance off guard. Maybe it’s because he feels it _internally_ before he tastes it, Walter holding him tight and spasming around his fingers in rhythmic pulses for a few seconds before his cock twitches and spills. Lance reflexively swallows his load without even thinking about whether or not he was ready for that, but once it happens he wants _more,_ wants to suck him dry, empty him out. He grips his narrow thigh in a bruising grip with his one free hand as Walter finishes in a mess of shudders, gasping and gorgeous and spread out on his sheets in ribbons, in ruins. When Lance lets his cock slide from his mouth he’s gasping, coughing, and all he wants to do is _kiss_ him. Lick inside that panting mouth, pull him close, _hold_ him. He collapses beside him with his face pressed to the sweat-damp wreck of his hair and thinks, with perhaps a little bit of panic, _I think this is what love is._ “You’ve got me _all_ fucked up,” he mumbles, lips pressed to Walter’s temple, where he can feel the thud of his pulse. “Driving, pumping, the whole—the whole shebang.” 

Walter’s laugh comes out as more than a wheeze. “Good news is, I think—um—if you took some serum right now? You probably wouldn’t want to attack me, which is nice. But please don’t take serum. Please just. Just stay.” 

“Don’t worry, I can’t move anyway, you’re stuck with me,” Lance mumbles before he rubs a hand through Walter’s hair, holding him close, feeling stupid for ever believing this was something worth fighting. Something he was capable of fighting. Pigeons mate for life, so. He’s not going anywhere.


End file.
